The gift of sowing: ears of corn whistling cooing in the wind. That golden immensity, united at last with the sphere, is reborn in the perpetual hours of childhood, whispering in my dreams I sing of her.
The house, made of clay and mud, with its gallery open to the sky of the trills, treasured the greens and autumns of the patio, close to the blackberries, eternalized on the edge of the lips.
Horneros and larks built their intimacy, with mud and leaf litter in woody browns, in the coral of the ceibo tree and in the weeping greens. They nest in other thickets, hastening the mornings, courting their infinite love during siestas.
Our home for girls, populated by early mornings of freshly warm milk, Sunday parties and solitude in the last light of the afternoon, are radiated goodness of life, at the age when we walked barefoot in the humidity of the earth.